GIVING IT TO YOU STRAIGHT

A Blunt, Bicoastal View On Love & Other Things

Nina at 24: The “M” Word, Viagra, and Gays (Part Two)

If you can’t tell by now, I’m obsessed with getting older. My friends had to throw me a “Nina’s Turning Nineteen…Twice!” party because I HATED being twenty (true story). I’ve touched on the cons of being twenty-four in the past, but more buggers have sprouted lately. See if you can relate.

The “M” word has spoken. Don’t freak out, it’s not menopause. It’s metabolism. My mother warned me, even my older friends warned me, but I laughed in their faces. That won’t happen to me! I can chew a piece of gum and lose three pounds. Giiirrrrl, how incorrect I was. This nasty bitch has slowly taken hold of my thighs and refuses to let go without a fight. In college, I could do fifteen-minute Pilates and see a two-pack of abs the next day. Now what do I see? MORE SPIDER VEINS. I mean, really, how does that happen? I want Speedy M to make an appearance in my body, not her lethargic sister.

My priorities have taken a turn for the worse, and they were never great to begin with. I’ve somehow found a boyfriend and his name is Errands (not to be confused with Aaron or Aron). When I’m asked out on a date, what is my first thought? But how will I run my errands? Hey Nina, want to catch a hockey game? I can’t leave errands high and dry! You’re gorgeous, can I take you to a Jack White concert while paying for all of your drinks including a trip to In-N-Out? Sorry, all of my attention must be on these fun activities called errands! (Nah. I’d go see Jack White.) For some reason, my brain thinks it’s more fulfilling to buy a bra and pick up birth control instead of putting either items to good use on a REAL DATE with a REAL (and hopefully attractive) HUMAN. Age: 2, Nina: 0.

Speaking of dates, there was a lever pulled somewhere between twenty-three and twenty-four that made older men more attractive to me. I’m talking ten years older. Beards? Hot. Almost in the Viagra ballpark? Bring it. Alright, I’m exaggerating, but these young guys can’t show me anything this slowing-metabolism-butt hasn’t seen. Being the same age is even pushing it. Why? Because young guys don’t have their shit together and my patience is out having fun without me. I don’t want to play mom and help you find insurance or drive you to work. Show me a mature twenty-four-year-old male, and I will start acting my age while taking the judgmental stick out of my ass (which could take a while since it’s pretty far up there).

Nina!! Whatcha doing tonight?! Let’s go to Weho* and dance with guys who don’t find our boobs attractive because it’s SO fun to go to places that don’t have your potential soul mate! Your clock isn’t ticking at all! They even let us buy our OWN drinks because we are independent women with big salaries! I don’t even care what time we get home. Let’s drink until 4am and not get hung over! Yay for being single! I will love my gay friends until the end of time, but it’s true. I don’t want to dance anymore. I don’t want to develop crushes on five guys in five minutes only to remember they’d rather make out with my male roommate. Straight clubs are out, too. It’s an unwanted workout which attracts overly tan, hairy guys who assume I like vodka (news flash: I fucking don’t). I also can’t stand the loud, beat-driven music. I want Ray Charles to lull me to sleep. Since when did I become a sixty year-old lady? Since I became twenty-four.

Stay young, readers. xoxo

*West Hollywood or “Weho” is the concentrated gay section of Los Angeles. It’s very colorful, too.